by Robert Finch
'I grow old, I grow old,' the garden says. It is nearly October.
The bean leaves grow paler, now lime, now yellow, now leprous, dissolving before my eyes.
The pods curl and do not grow, turn limp and blacken.
The potato vines wither, and the tubers huddle underground in their rough weather-proof jackets, waiting to be dug.
The last tomatoes ripen and split on the vine; it takes days for them to turn entirely now, and a few of the green ones are beginning to fall off."
- Robert Finch, Nature Writer